Kukuluth ignored the surprised yells and walked past the two men standing at the front door. The rest of the people in the foyer scattered liked dried leaves, whispering to themselves in fright. A timid voice interrupted his scan of the long, well-appointed marble-walled and -floored hall.

"Sir, can... can we help you?"

Kukuluth grabbed his bloody helm and removed it with a practiced motion. He could guess what he must look like. The nose guard protected his eyes and nose from harm, but did little for the splatter. He'd been wearing his helm for hours now, riding hard, answering the summons. His hair was clotted with blood, and rivulets of red had dried upon his face. It had been a grueling day.

He was hot, and tired and covered in gore. He only wanted to rest. Why did life have to be such a torment?

He tucked his helm under his arm and pulled a heavy chain from under his scale shirt. It clanked loudly in the silence. From the chain hung a delicate gold key. Amazingly, it was free of the blood that covered most of him, and seemed to get into all the cracks and crevices, annoying him. It was nice to see that not all things that touched him were tainted. He smiled at its unblemished shine. The key was thin and riddled with small, oddly shaped spaces. The shaft was no thicker than a man's little finger and half as long. The handle was round, twice as large as a gold piece; in it a beautiful dragon twisted around itself, an intricate knot of scaled body. From the large open maw hung a silken red tassel, also somehow free of gore.

"Oh. Um... the Fallen Dragon Key. An..." The man behind the desk seemed at a loss for words. "ah... well suited key."

Kukuluth didn't care how well suited the fool thought the key was. He only wanted to strip out of his armor and sleep for an eternity or two.

"If you would... um... just sign here on this line?" the small man asked as he shoved a piece of parchment across the desk. "If you can't... I mean... your mark is acceptable."

Kukuluth removed a gauntlet, and pulled his only piece of jewelry off his finger. He removed its ornate cover. The man jumped backwards as a soft sigh seemed to escape with the opening of the lid. Kukuluth smiled ferally and pressed the ring onto the paper.

A thousand shrill screams seemed to echo softly around the room.

He lifted the seal. A perfect X had been scorched into the paper. The soft, pained screams continued as his full name and his many titles scorched themselves along the appointed line.

With a final hiss of pain, the sound faded away, leaving only his name permanently etched into the paper, and perhaps the wood beneath.

"The House of Torment." The man wheezed and made a sign to ward off evil. Salith would be delighted to see her name invoked so many times in one day. "A page will take you to your room."

"No need. I know my way." Kukuluth dismissed the man with a turn of his head, and strode down the hall toward the stairs. It was unsurprisingly devoid of people. He sighed wistfully. He had hoped to spend some time in the sun. He supposed it was appropriate, however, that he was headed into the dark bowels of the Mother.

Fetim stood before the mirrors that lined five of the six walls in his room and stared at the pale, thin body that mocked him in the mirror. He hated it. He hated its sallow color, its angular features. He hated every rib that he could see as if only skin were stretched over the bone. He hated the slender, emaciated arms and legs. The bracelets that winked gold around his wrists and ankles only added to the humiliation. They were not the simple jewelry that at a glance they seemed, but just another piece of the larger mockery. They were a constant reminder of his slavery, restraints hidden as something lovely. Unpadded and unforgiving, upon use they bit into his skin, leaving deep cuts. He could see the pink skin on one wrist where they had only recently sloughed their scabs after the cuffs' last usage.

His eyes wandered over his chest. Small pale nipples scaled with callouses and misuse lay flatly again the deathly pallor of his skin. Blue veins crisscrossed his body beneath the translucent skin, reminding him of his impotence to put an end to his punishment. He was surrounded by instruments of death, but was completely unable to use one against himself. He had tried. He had held the perfect, shining blade against his skin and wept with want. He had screamed his frustrations to the heavens, but for naught. He had never been able to so much as prick himself with it. Death would not be easily found.

His golden eyes scanned, lowering, frowning at the golden belt that hung around his waist. A memento from the palace's head page on the day of his initiation as a fully trained key, he had worn it for two years. Its trailing chain drew his gaze down to his groin. A golden dragon charm rested just above his flaccid member. Its open maw appeared to be waiting to eat him whole.

Fetim could not remember the last time it had stirred from its lifelessness. Once, long ago, the touch of a hand was enough to awaken his body. Now he only reacted at the very peak of his masters' ministrations, when their bodies were sheathed deep in his own, pounding into him, wringing every scream they could from him. Sometimes then, it would awaken and harden in their cruel grasps, but never enough to become fully erect. Never enough to find release. How he desired it: to feel the searing pleasure burning away thought, leaving him cleansed and sated in its wake. Instead he was left with the clawing need. It burned through his veins, leaving him trembling and weak. But the release never came.

In the darkness of the night, once his master was asleep, he had tried. He had lain upon the floor and rubbed himself into the soft, plush carpet, desperately searching for the elusive delight of release. Never once had he found it, no matter how badly he had needed it. Finally he had been caught. The punishment was unforgettable. The sight of his own testicle pulled from its sack, small and bloody, was something he never wished to see again. The healers had been surprised when he hadn't died from blood loss and infection. He hadn't. The Gods wouldn't be that kind. He had healed well enough, but he no longer sought release without his master's permission.

In moments like this he wished he had died. Or perhaps the time his Master had driven his own Key into his chest and left him hanging on the Cross of Torment for the page who cleaned his room to find. But these things that would have killed others did not kill him.

He could almost hear the Gods laughing at him.

And today he could not forget. He could not forget that he was not the warrior he had once been. He had crushed kingdoms at a whim and killed his opponents with his bare hands. All that lay before him had been his to have, and he'd had it all. His body had been firm of muscle and strong of bone. There had been no woman he could not have. He had taken all those that pleased him, killing more than one man who had tried to oppose the taking of his wife. He had reveled in all the pleasures there were. He had been an unstoppable force until... He swallowed bile at the thought. Until his betrayal.

He could still see the look of grim determination on his most trusted guard's face. They had practically grown up together. They were blood brothers; it was why he had chosen Amir as the captain of his personal bodyguard. In the end, it had been Amir who had strapped him to the altar and cut his heart out.

Even now he could remember the unimaginable pain as the knife tore through his skin and his rib cage was ripped open. Thankfully, the Gods hadn't forced him to remember any more than that.

Today, the withered form in the mirrors mocked him louder than on others. Today, the knowledge of who he should be, not who he was, tore at his soul. Today, his anguish knew no bounds. He ran and beat the glass with his fists, knowing it would do him no good. He had tried to destroy the mirrors long ago. Eventually, after struggling with one of the "chairs" in the room, he managed to get one lifted and thrown again the glass. It had shattered.

He had laughed and danced around the room. The Gods would pay for their treason and he would start with the mirrors he hated more than anything else. He had giggled himself to sleep. In the morning he had risen to find it in perfect condition, as if he had never broken it.

He had screamed and cursed them, shaking his fists at them. But the Gods had ignored him as they always did. His curses, just like his prayers, fell on deaf ears.

A familiar but dreaded sound pulled him from his self-deprecation and hate. Someone was turning the Key to his room. He ran across the room, putting distance and furniture between himself and whoever was entering.

If it was the page, perhaps he would chase the youth around the room, raining him with curses and spit. He hated the boy's golden unblemished skin, his air of superiority. He was the King. Servants like Malicar should be begging to serve him, not calling him vulgar names and striking him with cruel hands.

If it was a Master, there would be things between them. It would give him, Zoreem Atulan Fetim, the ruler of all he surveyed, time to come up with a plan. He had tried to escape once, but there was something waiting for him in the hall. Something that wanted to sample his sweet flesh. He shuddered at the memory of the hulking darkness that promised an unpleasant death. Perhaps this one would be more susceptible to manipulation than the others.

Even as he thought it, he knew it would never work. It had never worked. The charm he had once had died long ago. The new form the Gods had birthed him into had never had the power of awe that his old one had.

The door swung open and the image that met his eyes caused the air in his lungs to leave him in a loud whoosh.

A God stood before him covered in the blood and gore of honorable battle. The man seemed to take up the entire doorway. Intense green eyes scanned the room, taking in the instruments of pain that lined the walls and posed as furniture. The metal of his armor clanked loudly against the marble floor. His head slowly swiveled towards the mirrors, his gaze seeming to penetrate the glass as if he could see something beyond them.

For long seconds the Master stood staring into the nothing before his attention finally came to rest on Fetim. It seemed as if the man could see beneath his skin. See the man he was, the man he used to be. He shuddered involuntarily.

"Fix me a bath," a rough voice ordered him. The Master's helmet clanked metallically against the floor as he dropped it. Gloved hands began to undo the buckles that held his armor on.

"I'm not your servant," Fetim said haughtily, and looked down his nose as he had years ago.

Hard, green eyes fixed on him before returning to the buckles of the armor. Each piece was carefully removed and added to the pile. Black leather lay beneath the heavy scale. The shirt was gingerly removed and thrown across the low padded bench that could be used for sitting, though the straps and eye bolts along the side usually kept it from being used in such a manner.

The man's body was smeared red with the blood. He must have wallowed in it. Fetim's own days of glory flickered through his head. He had reveled in the bloodletting as this man did. Bile rose in Fetim's throat. Now he could only remember and wish.

The man started the water in the black marble tub set into the floor and finished stripping his pants and gloves off. As an afterthought the man released the red cord that held the dark plait that hung down his back. The cord was carefully coiled and placed on the floor next to the Dragon Key. Without a second glance he settled himself into the water and began scrubbing industriously, washing the blood away.

"Find something to do. Staring at me isn't an option."

Fetim started at the voice that seemed to echo around his room. The man hadn't even looked up. Fetim stared for a moment longer in defiance before turning and wandering across the room. The mirrors kept the man before him no matter where he turned. For the first time in a long time, he felt at a loss what to do. Never before had a master simply told him to find something to do.

There was nothing to do. At least not alone anyway.

Finally he walked over to the bed and settled himself onto the plush silky carpet. Perhaps this was the Master he had been waiting for. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes.

Kukuluth stood dripping on the marble floor. The air in the room was cool against his wet, bare skin. The youth who had met him was apparently asleep on the floor near the bed and there wasn't a bath sheet anywhere in sight. He shrugged. It wasn't the first time, and, he assumed by the way things had been going, it wouldn't be the last.

He leaned over the draining tub and wrung most of the water out of his hair, then in a feat of muscle and skin he shook his entire body, copying the lowly dog. Water sprayed from his long locks and shook free of his skin. He paused before shaking his left foot. He stepped forward, shook his right and walked away from the puddle he'd made.

He walked to the center of the room, and once more scanned his surroundings. His father's touch was everywhere. The mirrors, the weapons that hung on the walls, the black striated marble beneath his feet, the furniture. If one could call it furniture. It seemed a rather loose interpretation of the word.

Except perhaps for the bed and the god-awful throne that stood proudly on its tiered dias, everything in the room was a device of death. Though he doubted that they were lethal now. The very fact that someone had provided him with a guillotine, even neutered, caused his guts to clench in a painful knot. What kind of horrors had this room seen?

The whispers in his head had promised him a rest from the constant anguish.

Peace.

The word held such sweet torment for him. He had heard it spoken about, and he remembered that he had been held in its gentle embrace in his youth. But now peaceful delight was beyond his grasp. He was, if nothing else, his father's son. He was Kukuluth of the House of Torment.

He walked to the tall wooden X that stood near a mirrored wall. The Torment's Cross still had blood on it. He looked at his reflection next to the symbol of his life. He seemed small and pale next to the dark wood. And he knew it had been placed in front of the central mirror so that the Key could not look away from the reflection of his torment. He reached out and touched it with his bare hands.

Screams echoed in his head. So much pain. So much anguish. It seared through him, blotting out everything but the neverending torment. Curses rained down upon him, and the screams went on. He saw golden eyes staring in hate at the cut and bleeding body hanging on the cross as the whip descended once more. The body arched away, rubbing against the rough wood and another scream joined its brethren.

A bloody figure lay trembling on the floor in the dark, as a foot struck out again. This time, the form only curled tighter and the sound of weeping overcame the endless screams.

Tears coursed down Kukuluth's face and he fell to his knees. There was no peace here. There would be no rest. Only more torment.

Fetim awoke to someone gently prodding his shoulder. He rolled over.

"Go away, Malicar," he said as he swatted at the offending appendage that was poking his shoulder, and resettled himself on the carpet.

The prodding continued and a deep, unfamiliar man's voice answered him. "Your breakfast will get cold."

Fetim's eyes snapped open and looked at the bare foot that was gently rocking him awake. It was attached to a leg clad in black leather. He followed it to its junction with the muscled, bare chest. Light golden skin stretched and relaxed with the man's motion. Green eyes surrounded by a halo of dark silken curls stared at him in amusement.

The Master.

He remembered last night. The blood and gore that had covered the man. His haughty remarks. The Master had taken a bath, alone thankfully, and Fetim had laid down to wait until the Master was done. Half of the time rod glowed blue in the mirrors around him. It was already mid-morning.

Fetim, startled and unsettled by this turn of events, struck out at the foot that had continued to poke at him.

He was startled as he missed completely. The Master had pulled his foot back and rested it against the side of his knee. Thin, dark eyebrows quirked in question before he put his foot down and strode to the closest thing Fetim had to a table. It was waist high. Its black lacquered top was rectangular, two handwidths wider than a human body and a handwidth longer. There was a tall, uncomfortable stool that went with the table. Straps and buckles adorned its outer edge. He'd never actually eaten at the table though. He'd usually been on it, not sitting next to it.

The Master sat on the stool and motioned for Fetim to join him.

Eggs and bacon greeted him good morning. His stomach turned. He hated eggs, they were squishy. Apparently the Master had felt it necessary to order for him. He frowned at the unappetizing breakfast. He usually skipped breakfast; actually, he preferred to skip morning altogether.

"Who said I was hungry?" he asked belligerently. He knew he shouldn't speak to his Master so, but he just wanted the beatings to begin. The sooner he got them over with, the sooner this Master would leave.

Green eyes bored into him.

"I did," The Master's voice was low.

"Well, you were wrong," he verbally jabbed the Master. Masters were never wrong, even when they were.

The Master shrugged, picked up the plate and set it on the floor next to his chair.

"I had hoped we could talk as man to man, but it appears that in all your training to be a Key, they forgot to teach you how to be a person."

Anger coursed through Fetim's veins. He had killed men for lesser insults.

"How dare you speak to me in such a way! I am not an expensive whore! I amZoreem Atulan Fetim, King of Delscar! I united the all the southern kingdoms under my rule. The known world trembled at the mention of my name. Had I not been betrayed I would have consumed the whole of Ashmar."

He stood trembling, waiting for the man before him to deny the words he had spoken. He could already feel the tears that always followed the anger.

"Delscar, you say?" The man crossed his arms over his chest, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "I was just through Delscar, a little over a month ago. They are a hardy people. A little ugly perhaps, but hardy. Their women have wide hips and strong bodies. I suppose that makes sense though, considering..."

Fetim didn't know what to say. No one had ever believed him before, let alone were willing to discuss his home country with him.

"Considering what?" he asked. Since being reborn he had heard no news of his home.

"First you must sit and eat."

Fetim looked at the eggs and bacon on the plate and then at the man sitting on the stool. He didn't want to give in on the breakfast, but he needed to know what had happened to his kingdom after his death. He doubted any successor could reclaim what was lost, but he hoped it was strong and prosperous.

Finally he sank to his knees and picked up the fork he'd been given. He tried not to think of what he was eating as he put the warm egg in his mouth and chewed.

The Master nodded.

"Considering the hardships they have had to endure. They are a proud people. Tall and strong, darkened by the bright sun overhead. I know that it breaks their hearts to have to ask Gilmoria for refuge."

"Refuge from what!" Fetim cried out and moved to rise.

A strong hand pushed him back down.

"As you know, they are a nomadic people, moving from one place to another, hunting the animals that still live in Delscar. The recent drought has driven off the few herds that still existed. Their lives are hard, as their weathered faces will attest to. They are a good people though. And if a man doesn't mind looking for the beauty of the person beneath the skin, he will find many willing companions in Delscar."

"Nomadic! We are a settled people. We live in the fertile Tarnth Valley. There is no land lusted after more than our precious valley. The Gods gave it to us.

The man shrugged. "What the Gods give, the Gods take away. It is the Tarnth Desert now. It seems, once long ago, a man whose name has disappeared into the depths of time angered the Gods. He shook his fists at them, and proclaimed himself the Ruler of all, The Great Destroyer, the giver and taker of life. It angered the Gods, and each punished him. Fire burned all the land and Water turned her face from it. Father sky burned with heat and drought. Mother earth took away the life she had given so freely. Delight wept and Torment reigned over all.

"In the end, the man was finally destroyed, either by the elements or his own people, no one really remembers anymore. I have heard the story with three different endings to his life, but they were all painful. The Gods released their grip on the people. All except the Mother. She is hard to anger, but unforgiving once she does. She continued to drain the life from the land. The Gods beseeched her to let the land return to its vibrant self, but the Mother has forgotten her paradise, and to this day, a man can not live longer than three days in the Tarnth Valley without her taking his life as well."

Fetim shook his head in denial. That wasn't possible. His people were the kings of the world. He... they were unstoppable. "But why? Why?"

"Because he was a cruel, selfish man, who turned his face away from the Gods. He was beloved of them. They gave him joys unlike any given to others. He united all the southern kingdoms. They did this for him, and he turned his face from them. Torment can't stand to see his sister weep. And Fire is the Great Destroyer.

"Perhaps once you were Fetim, but Zoreem Atulan Fetim died long ago.

"We will never again discuss your previous lifetime. You are a bastard, left on the Palace steps shortly after birth. You are a servant of man. A child of Delight. You are Kasander, The Fallen Dragon Key."

The man scooped the remaining food off his plate onto Fetim's. "Eat."

He glared angrily at the man and shoved the plate away.

The Master reached down, dumped the food onto the floor and pointed.

"You will eat all of it. Or I will tie you down and stuff it down your throat."

Fetirm looked into the green eyes and knew the Master would do it.

Finally, he finished it all. His stomach was hard and round against his skin. He felt ill and wanted to cry from the pain that lanced from his stomach.

The Master walked to the bed and pulled back the covers.

Surely he didn't intend to have sex with him... not like this. Not so full. Fetim knew he would throw up if he tried.

"Don't look at me that way. Come lie down and rest. It will help you digest."

Fetim nodded and did as he'd been instructed. He did feel tired.

The cool covers slid over his skin and darkness consumed him.

Kukuluth frowned down at the sleeping form. The child was going to be difficult to break. He was spoiled and selfish. His hate raged like a tempest and pain no longer was a punishment.

However, Kukuluth knew from painful experience that the greatest torment was not always pain. There would have to be changes though.

The door opened behind him and Kukuluth turned to the page who had just entered.

"I'm glad you've arrived. There are some things I will be needing."

The young boy blinked at him in startlement. "Need? The Palace has provided everything you will need here in this room."

Kukuluth crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that so? And what exactly am I supposed to eat off of?"

The page glanced to the sleeping form on the bed before he shrugged. "The Key."

Anger that Kukuluth tried to deny welled up from deep within. Why did everyone assume that because he was of the House of Torment that was all he was? Why did everyone treat him as if he couldn't dream of peace, of delight?

"The KEY! What kind of monster do you take me for?"

He growled his anger, and jerked the door open. He strode past the mortal fluff in the hall, the page scurrying after him.

He finally stopped three floors up in front of a young man wearing tight fitting leather pants and a leather vest that was discretely tied closed. Upon his shoulder a raven sat, its head turned sideways, staring at him expectantly.

"Welcome to the Temple of Delight." The young man bowed deeply. "I am Tabris and this is..." A smile quirked at his lips. "This is Raven. How may we help you?"

His anger drained away and he bowed slightly to the perched raven. It would not do to anger one of his father's servants.

Kukuluth turned his attention back to the raven's human companion, the anger rising once more.

"I know the things that men say about me behind my back. I know the things they tell their children I will do to them if they don't behave. And I know the curses that are flung at me in the darkness of the night. But that does not mean they are all true."

Tabris nodded, his eyes glowing with understanding.

"I have eaten bugs and the worms of the earth. I have eaten the steaming innards of my enemies. And I have eaten things that were never meant for a man to eat. I did as my father bid. But I am not here as my father's agent. Is it so strange to think that perhaps, I might wish to sit at a table and eat like a civilized man?"

Tabris looked to the young page behind Kukuluth. "Did Malicar not offer you one?"

Malicar's eyes widened in surprise. "But... Tabris... all the others... they just..."

Tabris raised a hand, silencing the page. "I am sorry, Kukuluth, son of Torment. Please do not take this as a prejudice against yourself. No Master of the Fallen Dragon Key has ever requested anything that wasn't already in the room. We are very strict with what Kasander can and cannot have. He is very... demanding. As you have probably already experienced. He is not allowed to request for things. His room has everything he needs as it is. However, you are a Master. If there is something you need, we are always willing to provide it. To the best of our abilities."

Kukuluth's anger drained away at the honesty in Tabris' words.

"I would like a table and four sturdy chairs. One for me. Two for guests if I ever invite anyone to the room and one for Kasander. I would also like screens. It is my privilege to be aware of Kasander's body and its functions. It is not his to know mine. I do not like being stared at while bathing, and the mirrors make it difficult to be discreet. Also, I would like some Baltis balm. And if it isn't too much to ask, I would like a book or two. I have two of my own but they are old and well read. Perhaps a shelf to hold them on as well?"

Tabris nodded. "Of course, your request is not outrageous. It will be done. If there is anything else, please tell Malicar. I am sure this will not happen again."

Malicar nodded earnestly and stared at the floor.

Kukuluth turned and walked back to his room, the first sparks of hope flickering that finally he had found a place where he could know peace.

Tabris watched the golden form clothed in black leather walk proudly back to the Fallen Dragon Key's room. He glanced at his companion and gently ran his cheek against her soft, black-feathered wing.

"Do you think he can tame our wayward Key?" he asked, his eyes glowing with a golden light. "Will he return the child of Delight to his mother's arms?"

Raven simply clicked her hard beak, and stared after the retreating figure with shining black eyes.

Fetim rolled over and tried to get his bearings. Material rustled softly and he looked down at the crimson silk sheets that covered his body. His brow furrowed with a frown. He wasn't allowed to sleep on the bed without a Master.

A soft, unfamiliar rustling pulled him from his thoughts.

The Master, with his hair pulled back into a braid, sat at a table that Fetim had never seen before.

He covered his face with his arm as he remembered their conversation before his nap. He had destroyed his people, stolen the gifts given to them by the Gods. His people now lived on the generosity of others.

Hot tears slid past his closed eyelids and trailed down his face.

It's not my fault! It's the Gods'! They betrayed us! ... Stop it, you coward! Get up. Steal the key! We will rule our people again and lead them to greatness once more! a voice deep within Kasander raged.

A sob escaped and he knew he would do no such thing. He never did. He was weak. His heart and soul were tired and sickly. Surely the Gods laughed loudest now. Another sob broke free and he rolled away from his Master, pulled his knees to his chest and hoped his Master wouldn't notice.

His eyes flew open in surprise as a cool hand touched his cheek, brushing away the tears.

"What is it, little one? Why do you weep so?" his Master asked gently.

Kasander looked into his Master's soft green eyes. He wanted to tell this man all that lay in his heart, but the voice raged on.

Look at him! See how he pities us! I am a leader of men. I deserve respect!

Surely the voice was wrong, surely it wasn't pity in his Master's eyes. He met the green gaze and knew in his heart that that was all it could be. ëPoor Kasander. Poor weeping Kasander.' He could hear his Master's thoughts and they burned away his momentary weakness.

Bile rose in Fetim's throat and he struck at the hand that gently caressed his face.

"Nothing!" he snapped. "Nothing at all."

The green eyes that had just so recently looked at him with concern, hardened to their normal state of distant coolness.

"Then get up. Your lunch is ready."

Fetim groaned.

Food again?

But even as he thought it, his stomach rumbled hungrily and his mouth started to water.

He stretched before getting up and wandering over to the new dining table that sat in the guillotine's spot. The guillotine itself had been pushed into a corner and covered with a black sheet.

"Trying to prove what a civilized man you are? Covering it and bringing in a dining set doesn't change what you really are." he verbally jabbed the Master. Fetim needed to retaliate for the pity so apparent in the Master's eyes. He needed no ones pity.

The Master looked up from the book he'd begun reading. His green eyes had darkened to almost black, and Fetim knew he had finally struck a sore spot with the man.

He waited with pride for the blow to land. Instead, the Master picked up his plate off the table and sat in on the floor.

"Eat," he commanded.

Fetim knew he could not deny the direct order.

In afterthought he looked at the chair his plate was sitting next to. He realized with a little inspection that it had discrete hooks placed on its sides. He glanced at the Master's chair and saw it was exactly the same chair minus the almost hidden restraints.

The Master had gotten him a chair as well. A chair with no hidden torture devices installed, nothing but small hooks for his wrist bracelets. The knowledge sank to the pit of his stomach.

He dropped to his knees before his plate, agonizingly aware if he had held his tongue he could be sitting in the chair like a man, instead of beside it.

His gaze dropped to his plate. It was piled with meats and fruits. It included Ransht meat and oogla berries, his favorite foods.

A tear slid down his face as he ate the food before him. Much to his disgust, the Master forced him to eat it all.

Again his stomach ached with the pain of being overfilled. And again the Master held the sheets up for him to crawl into the bed. He had only begun to question the Master's motives, when sleep overcame him and pulled him into the darkness once more.

Kukuluth gently pushed crimson hair off the sleeping slave's face.

He hated tears. They haunted his dreams, and he loathed for them to reign here, in his sanctuary. Nonetheless, the first of his own slid down his own cheeks.

He had been fortunate the young man had awakened from his drugged slumber. Kukuluth had drastically misjudged the amount of Tarsmath herb to give the boy. Instead of sleeping for a mere eight hours as Kukuluth had intended, the youth had slept for more than a full day.

In small quantities Tarsmath was a light sedative, helping to lull the mind and body into a natural sleep. Kukuluth had found that he could mix it with warm Gansh milk and his busy mind would still enough that he could sleep.

In large quantities it could kill, or as he had feared in Kasander's case, bring about a sleep so deep and pure that the victim could not be roused. The slumber would continue until the soul became restless and left to rejoin the Mother; the body too weak to contain it.

He had begun to despair when the boy finally began to awaken. He had never seen anything as beautiful as those golden eyes staring out at him from the mirrors.

The tears that had followed had startled him. Fear knotted his gut. He had heard of other side effects of the herb, but they were rare, and he doubted the validity of them all. He checked for a fever, and was relieved to find that Kasander's skin was damp but cool.

Perhaps it had been a moment of weakness on Kasander's part or perhaps he was reading things that were not there, but for a moment, the veil of anger that normally obscured everything in Kasander's eyes had been raised, and Kukuluth thought he could see the soul beneath.

The anguish and need in those golden orbs had caused him to pause. He had wanted to give comfort to the young man. Before he could even grasp how to deal with the situation, the anger had returned full force and he'd been slapped. Again.

In the joy of Kasander's awakening, Kukuluth had forgiven the gesture. There was nothing wrong with Kasander. Nothing that hadn't been wrong before he had come, anyway.

The words that Fetim had spat at him still stung, though he knew he should not let them hurt him so. He knew that Kasander hadn't truly understood what he'd said, but it was a tender spot for Kukuluth. He spent so much of his time being a destroyer of culture, people and lives, that he struggled every moment he was not, trying to prove that wasn't who he was. That the death, and war and rape was his duty, his job. He desperately wanted to be a civilized man who ate from linen covered tables, surrounded by his family and friends. A man who was well educated. Who understood the beauty in life.

He knew the time he spent reading was wasted. He was the avatar of Torment. Anguish was the air he breathed and pain his food. A thousand faces all begged for mercy, and a thousand faces found only torment.

He had to break Kasander of blurting out the hateful things that ran deep in his heart and soul. He had to learn to ignore the things Kasander said, or Kasander would be the master and he the slave. In his heart he knew that his pretense at masterhood was a mockery. He was as much a slave as Kasander. He only had to be sure Kasander never figured out how much so.

He smiled bitterly. What man wasn't a slave to something?

Are we not all cut of the same weave?